


Once bitten, twice shy

by Tezzereth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, M/M, cursed Emhyr, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tezzereth/pseuds/Tezzereth
Summary: Emhyr looks up from his drink, takes a deep breath and says: “I find myself in need of your assistance again, witcher.”Emhyr gets cursed and seeks out Geralt to help him while knowing this might be a hopeless endeavor. Geralt is not sure he wants any part in this, but misses the good old days in which he tangled with griffins, and elder vampires and kings, because all he does now is kill the occasional drowner for money he does not need. They set out on a path to help the former Emperor, also possibly because Ciri might not approve of Geralt being mean to the man just for old times' sake.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	Once bitten, twice shy

Geralt hears them long before the leader of the group announces his presence. The witcher was getting ready to get back on the road and grab a room at the nearest inn, stashing last provisions into Roach’s saddlebags with his back turned to what he identifies as 6 lightly, but presumably well trained men. Not in the mood for a fight, he turns his head to them while putting his hand on the handle of his sword - a clear enough gesture for them to halt their approach. The men stop a couple feet away from him. They aren’t wearing any uniforms, but the way they hold themselves clearly betrays their training and readiness to jump into combat at the slightest sign of trouble. 

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, master witcher?” Geralt contemplates the question or rather how it is asked. The men don’t seem to be itching to draw their swords just yet, so Geralt lets go of his sword and faces them and nods at the man.

“His Highness would like a word. If you would please follow us, he is waiting for you, ” the leader of the group says and motions with his hand for Geralt to follow. The other men take a step back allowing them to pass. The witcher walks behind the leader while keeping a close eye on the rest of the group. In his head he quickly goes through the list of known nobles that might want a word with him. He comes up with nothing. Then he starts cataloguing those who might have a reason to hold a grudge against him. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t recall anyone whom he might have recently insulted enough to send a group of well trained men after him. Sure, Anna Henrietta is still far from happy with him because of how he handled the whole thing with her sister, but the years following the incident have somewhat lessened her ire. After all, he still managed to save the whole city and her life. He keeps musing about it up until they almost reach the entrance to the local inn. Geralt immediately recognizes the person rigidly standing outside the entrance door. He halts in front of the man and simply says: “Not bowing this time either.” The other man only throws him a scornful look and motions for him to enter.

As soon as he steps inside, his eyes adjust to the dim light of the tavern. Geralt makes his way to the single person sitting in the corner of the room. The witchert sits opposite the man who still seems not to have acknowledged his presence. He is clad in black, well-made clothes which somehow lack their usual ornaments and while they definitely hint at their wearer’s wealth, they don’t betray the man’s identity right away. None of that changes the fact that Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame et cetera, et cetera is sitting in a drafty tavern, deep in the middle of nowhere in Toussaint, with a half empty tankard of beer in front of him no less. Well, fuck, Geralt thinks. Something must have gotten royally screwed for the Emperor of Nilfgaard to be anywhere other than his imperial palace with only a handful of men accompanying him. The witcher prepares to ask what the fuck is going on, but gets interrupted by the other man’s question.

“Would you care for a beer, witcher?” Emhyr asks standing up. 

Geralt is at a loss. Is the Emperor of Nilfgaard actually asking him, if he wants a bloody beer? The confusion must have shown on his face as Emhyr makes the displeased sound of a man waiting for a reply to a very simple question unnecessarily long.

“Are you really asking me if I want a beer?” Geralt asks looking straight up at Emhyr’s face. A face that suddenly seems younger to the witcher than what he last recalls. He shrugs the thought off dismissively - last time he has properly seen the Emperor was during the campaign against Eredin and Emhyr had been exhausted and haggard at that time, just like the rest of them, even though he made a damn good effort at hiding it. He could not have afforded to show his weakness - the conspirators and potential traitors had still been lurking around.

“Sure, might as well have a beer with you.” Geralt finally replies with a shrug..

Emhyr nods curtly, and sets off towards the bar and brings back a tankard for Geralt and a fresh one for himself. They both take a sip and silence settles again over the otherwise empty place. After a moment or two, Emhyr looks up from his drink, takes a deep breath and starts:

“I find myself in need of your assistance again, witcher.”

Geralt pauses a bit. The simplicity with which the other man says it carries a strange sense of calm - resignation, Geralt realizes. So this probably does not concern Ciri, otherwise Emhyr would have cut to the chase long ago. He has to be sure, however.

“Is Ciri okay?” Geralt questions, looking directly into Emhyr’s eyes. He knows Emhyr is a masterful liar, but previous experience shows that he tends to be very direct in things concerning his daughter and Geralt’s deep care for her. He might not approve, but he tolerates Geralt’s letters to her and the occasional visit every now and then.

“Cirilla is more than fine. She is carrying the mantle of being Empress extremely well.” Emhyr looks almost offended at the thought he would allow any harm to come to his daughter, but there is another underlying emotion in the tone of his voice which Geralt doesn’t fail to notice.  
Is that a smile, Geralt muses? It was small and very well hidden, but he could clearly see the pride in the other man’s face. Now that he thinks about it, the face definitely seems younger. Much younger. Gone is the grey hair and stern lines in his face. Something is wrong here. Is the other man actually a doppler that has only seen some portrait of a younger Emhyr? But the chance of two dopplers working together, the other impersonating Mererid are actually pretty slim, dopplers tend to work alone. The men also seemed very well trained and very well equipped, so whoever is backing this whole thing up must have some serious coin behind him. Rich and powerful people asking him nicely for favors usually ends up with Geralt getting injured, locked up, tangled in court machinations, on the bad side of one or more sorcesseres or all of the above. Geralt decides he has had enough of the charade. With witcher speed, he jumps to his feet, grabs the man by the collar of his robe and pulls him to a standing position. There is a fleeting expression of surprise on the man’s face, then a brief look of anger and then a carefully crafted mask of nothing. 

“Enough with this masquerade. Spill it - who are you and what do you want?” Geralt tightens the grip on the man’s neck and scowls at him. 

Suddenly, the imposter jerks violently from Geralt’s grasp, his hands shoot to his face as an angry, painful cry tears from his throat and he collapses to his knees, hands still clutching his head. The witcher stands there, puzzled, and waiting for the men to barge in and attack. A while passes, the man is still mostly motionless on the floor clutching his head. Geralt contemplates touching the man, but that is usually not the greatest of ideas, so he waits, sword ready in his hand. After a moment, Emhyr’s deep voice breaks the silence of the still room as he looks up at Geralt:

“I have been cursed. Again.” 

Realization hits Geralt hard in the face. He was wrong, this is no imposter, as this curse is pretty unique to one specific person.

“Well. fuck” Was all he manages as the man staring at him is currently displaying some definitely very hedgehog-like facial features. Here we go again.

**Author's Note:**

> There is this concept art of Emhyr in which he always looked younger to me than in the actual game, so I decided to put a spin on it and see where it takes me. Not beta-edited and English is not my first language. Let me know what you think and if you want to see where this goes, will probably write based on how motivated I am to see the story unfold. Thank you for reading!


End file.
